


Deluge

by paprikaflakes



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Edward Nygma Has Mental Health Issues, Edward Nygma Has a Crush, Edward Nygma is not nice, He uses riddles as a way to express his deepest feelings, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jonathan Crane is not nice, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Vaguely unsettling and uncomfortable, Will the Riddler ever go to therapy? Or will he just have uncomfortable conversations with people?, but boy oh boy is he bad at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24814003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paprikaflakes/pseuds/paprikaflakes
Summary: In Gotham City, it always seems to be raining at exactly the worst moment for it.(Or, why does the Riddler let the madman with the fear gas canisters patch him up, exactly?)
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Edward Nygma
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36





	Deluge

Edward hissed in pain as Jonathan dabbed at the thin, tracing cuts on his forearm. The acrid smell of antiseptic and blood made his head spin. His vision began to tunnel at the edges, lights sparking in and out. He turned to look at Jonathan. As he tensed, involuntarily squirming out of the other man’s grip on his wrist, the wooden kitchen chair creaked precipitously.

“You have to stay still. I can’t put enough pressure if you’re gonna keep squirming like that,” Jonathan flatly stated.

Not for the first time, Edward noticed the tinge of exhaustion creeping into his voice. Latex gloved fingers were slowly turning over, passing over the thin white line of an older scar, to an even older small and round one, to press down on the slowly oozing wounds, then bandaged them, methodically rolling gauze with a clinical precision.

The stinging pain turned to a low throb, and finally, the pain meds started to kick in. Whatever remaining adrenaline rush from earlier faded into a soft, cotton wool haziness. Jonathan made a soft _hm_ sound from the back of his throat. Jonathan sat back in his chair, and regarded him with a cool dispassion in his dark eyes. The kitchen clock ticked behind them, that seemingly ever present drizzle during a Gotham autumn hit the windows. An intrusive thought bubbled up.

‘Question: What is the third rainiest city on the east coast? Answer: Gotham City, which has, on average, 165 days of rain or snow a year.’ he thought to himself.

And it rained, and rained, and rained that night. Rained enough to offset the aim of a well thrown batarang at least. It could have been significantly worse, he mused to himself. It really could have. Last year, he took a batarang to the thigh, and it had hurt the entire time he was in Arkham, throbbing with this ugly type of muscle pain. Not worth a repeat. A moment passed. Edward focused on the sound of the clock, and not on the uncomfortable stare. Not for the first time, he thought about the unfortunate implications of him choosing to spend time with someone who, while thankfully didn’t physically resemble the man, still had the ability to provide an uncomfortable similarity in methods to his father. Fear, conditioning, various assorted stimuli. Edward may not have been a psychologist like Jonathan, but he could recognize techniques like that from a mile away. He wouldn’t be condescended to.

“Well, I don’t think you’re gonna die today, but don’t be getting too cocky,” Jonathan quipped, breaking the silence.

There was no humor to it. He stood up. The blood covered gloves went into the trash, and Jonathan began to wash and dry his hands. It happened before Edward can really stop himself. Not that he’s ever tried that hard.

“A woman shoots her husband, then holds him underwater for five minutes. Then she hangs him. And then they have dinner.”

“It is two in the goddamn morning. We are not going to do this right now”

“A woman shoots her-”

“Heard you the first time. If I said I didn’t know it, would you tell me the answer?”

“So you’re giving up?”

Not for the first time that night, Edward wished he hadn’t dropped the gun in the alley. He imagined, for a brief, jolting little moment, what it would be like to shoot Jonathan Crane in his patronizing head. He had certainly imagined putting “Dr. Crane the Arkham psychologist” in a death trap, but that had been an impersonal sort of hate, towards any authorities at that institution, and really, Edward had imagined orderly and doctor and patient alike crushed by the weight of their intellectual failings. And then, he felt a little twinge of something off putting at the thought of just shooting Jonathan. Jonathan snorts.

“Then I guess I’m giving up.”

That’s enough to push him over.

“She’s a _photographer_. A _photographer._ The woman is developing the film, then displaying the finished image. You didn’t even try! You just need to pay attention-”

Then something shifted, something a less perceptive person would have overlooked. Jonathan’s slight hunch straightened out, that curiously flat look in his eyes deepened and widened and Edward realized that pushing wouldn’t be very intelligent of him right now.

“I’m tired of playing nursemaid to you. You could at least be grateful,” Jonathan said, the tone of his voice flattening out into a drawl.

And Edward realized that he should really have shut up, because that was most certainly the voice and body language Jonathan used when, well, he did whatever it was the two of them did for a living now. Edward noted the chopping block full of knives, and estimated how long it would take for him to push Jonathan and grab one, probably about ten seconds if he jammed the chair into Jonathan's knees, because really, being prepared never hurt anyone. Just noting possibilities. Then Jonathan paused. He pinched the bridge of his nose. The hunch returned, the tension left.

“Look, I was… just try not to reopen any of those scabs? The naproxen I gave you should take the edge off enough. Just try to sleep. Good night.”

“...Thank you Jonathan. I owe you a favor now.”

Edward realized he had definitely bound himself to some unspecified future action, and he hated not knowing. But any kind of manipulation, especially as one in the weaker position, would have been necessary at this point. Like a dog showing its belly. Jonathan grunted and left.

The rain outside didn't let up until morning, when he collected his jacket and cane, and left before Jonathan woke up. The sun hadn't risen fully yet, making everything blue and soft focus. The street was coated in wet fallen leaves, some of them sticking to his shoes. He pulled out his phone and called Nina. Out of his two assistants, Nina Damfino was the least likely to be nursing a hangover, and the woman was usually up around eight anyways for her morning yoga, a creature of habit.

"Mm, yeah," she paused to yawn.

"Don't 'mm, yeah' your _employer_ , thank you kindly. I'm in..."

He paused to look around. It pained him to admit it, but last night he had been disoriented enough to get turned around. He paused and looked.

Brownstones, but not new or well kept, he noted. The only indications of life in the neighborhood were lace curtains in the window of a building across the street, the flickering of a television. Jonathan was probably going to be dosing his neighbors to some degree with low grade fear toxin, and that made people act oddly and reclusive, but it was uncannily empty for a Gotham neighborhood, even this early in the morning, probably on account of the-

Overgrown trees, but the roots were bursting through sections of sidewalk, most likely Poison Ivy's work from last year, that had certainly caused enough problems in this little neighborhood for people to move out and she had destroyed some of-

The cast iron street lamps, the ones that were still up and functional, not nearly enough for a street this size, too poor neighborhood for the city to care, and not flickering like the one over him, had the distinctive bishop's crook stylings putting them as being older. So it stood to reason that this was-

"Robbinsville. Corner of Moore and 7th. Come pick me up, take the black car, don't be overly conspicuous. Be quick, don't spend anytime 'putting your face on' like you usually do. Your foundation isn't the right undertone anyway."

And yes, he was being overly snippy, but he paid both Nina and Deidre enough to make up for it. The perils of working for someone intelligent and overly observant, indeed. Some little part of him, the part that had gotten that psychology degree along with the others, out of boredom, realized he was over compensating for being in a position of vulnerability, as usual. 

Edward Nygma told that little part to shut the fuck up, and waited in the morning fog. 

**Author's Note:**

> riddle me this: was jonathan intentionally triggering him or not? 
> 
> oh boy, eddie nygma has it baaaaad huh. he's still going to try to go for it. he's still gonna try to fuck the scarecrow at some point. godspeed and good luck, you bastard.


End file.
